Sunshine's Just Around the Corner
by EmbracingYourFreak
Summary: England is strong, but he's not invincible.


England often looked at his pride as a rather unattractive blemish on his personality. It wasn't a rare occasion for him to be nearly inducing asphyxiation to the self-proclaimed_ country of love_ for something as simple as the other commenting on his "rather bland" attire ("_That looks to be picked out of the moth-infested closet of an old man. Quel ennui!"_). He constantly sent telegrams to America in to blatantly point out that he _did not_, in fact, enjoy sitting in his study alone to pour over centuries-old texts because he was a boring, stuffy old man (_"There is a distinct difference between reminiscing and being boring, you twit."_). But when it came to the possibility of losing his people to a mad dog run amuck and terrorizing his country, there was no question of whether he would look a bit arrogant when fighting back - he would till his last breath, regardless.

And so he found himself huddled over in the rubble and dirt of a very broken London, trying to nurse the new gaping hole that had appeared across the sensitive underside of his right arm. It stretched across at a slight slant from just beneath the tender flesh of his wrist to below the crook of his elbow in a savage gash, the edges blackened and rough. The courtesy of a bomb; compliments of a Stuka. The small island fought to suppress the anguished groan as he pressed an already bloodied cloth to the wound. The blood was pouring far too easily for not having been a mortal wound. He would probably need stitches. A bubble of something akin to hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat when he thought of how he was supposedly out of the dangers of the battlefield.

England knew he should be used to the wounds. After all, he had so many of them scattered along his body in varying shapes and sizes that it became an agonizing task to walk along the street at a leisurely pace, let alone in full gear. When gunfire broke out in the remote fields, his body screamed in protest and dark dots stippled his vision when he dove into the cover of the knee-high grass_ (That wasn't normally the sickly browns and yellows that smelt of smoke and blood and death.) _as his pack dug into the collection of newly opened gashes along his back that had nothing to do with open combat. But now that he had fallen back to London, he woke each morning a little more worn for wear as he gingerly shrugged into his olive green colors; just a tad more tired as he dressed a new wound that had developed overnight while he was in a blissful state of unconsciousness under the care of rum and Cognac biscuits.

But he was a proud Englishman and he was stubborn to a point just short of thickheadedness. So he bit the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the searing pain that sliced through him as he walked into the War Room with France and Russia and he nodded his agreement with a confident smirk that made his heart ache with the wrongness of the gesture as Churchill gave him words of encouragement ("_Just a bit longer, old boy."_). And he certainly _never_ gave in to the temptation of breaking into screams of desperation when he read America's firm assurances that he would remain neutral in the war. He held his head high and walked through the steps of his day on cue and as expected of him. He was strong - he could handle a few aches in the name of his people's happiness.

And when the March snow crunched beneath him as he shrank to his knees, England couldn't help but smile bitterly at the statement it made. Snow: A symbol for winter - the season of death. For it to linger in the city when it was generally reaching the end of its season was a testament to what was happening to the nation as a whole. It was being torn apart; so much death (_My people, their hopes, their dreams -_) had been dealt on his land, tearing families apart and ruining the lives of the living. The nation was dying in a sea of blood and tears. The snow laughed mockingly as he seized forward in agony. A bomb sounded in the distance.

Angry tears formed under cinched-shut lids and blood seeped into the pure white below. _This is not the end. I will not lose._ But his body remained in the snow, trembling and bleeding.

The nation didn't bother to lift his head to the approaching footsteps. It was probably another citizen stumbling through to shelter; they wouldn't stop for him anyway. It wasn't so strange to see a fallen body in the streets anymore. But when they slowed to a stop beside him and a body lowered itself to its knees, he willed his body to still its shaking (_I won't appear weak in the face of my people._) and struggled to lift himself up. It was did not respond.

"I'm sorry."

A tiny, strangled sound left England's lips. His act of invulnerability had worked so well -had even fooled himself in some of the _worst _of times - but it was those two words that broke him. A simple display of remorse that sounded so utterly _beautiful_ because he was _exhausted_ and _hurting_ and wanted nothing more than to lie still and _truly rest_ and it was him,_ it was him -_

"I th-thought you were n-n-neutral." A jacket draped over his shoulders and warm, tender hands hefted him into a pair of waiting arms.

"I am." Arthur fought desperately to contain a particularly ugly sob. "But I'm here for you. Not my president. Not my people. Just you."

And England cried. He melted his defenses and false bravado into raw, aching _relief._ Tears and sobs and high, shrill wails tore at him in their intensity as they were released in a torrent from the small corner they had been caged into and he clung to the fabric of the shirt (that smelled of fresh open fields and coffee and sunshine) as if the earth were melting around him and that body was the only safety from a plummet to his death. He didn't register the soft voice murmuring sweet nothings into his ear or the hand stroking through the messy blonde locks with an almost reverent soft touch. It was a while before the nation calmed into a soft sniffling and an occasional wet sob.

Later that night, when England was tucked in bed and America was holding him gently from behind, America spoke.

"It's fucking cold in here." And England laughed.

"It is. But spring's coming." He pulled the arm tighter around his middle. America smiled.


End file.
